Inkheart: The Story Continued
by Masked Man 2
Summary: A continuation of 'Inkheart: The Untold Story:' a collection of stories that, having been mentioned in tales of the Inkworld, are now being fleshed out and retold.
1. Resa and the Snake

**Author's Note: Oh...I didn't get the 'where you left off' memo...so I started in a random place. Oops. Well, in any case...hi, everyone! I'm Masked Man 2, and I'll be continuing **_**Inkheart: The Untold Story**_** for the wonderful PrizJefra. I hope you enjoy Chapter 1!**

**Disclaimer: I don't own **_**Inkheart (**_**in any shape or form), and I don't own **_**The Untold Story**_**, either. **

The night was still as stone and black as pitch; not even a breath of wind stirred the dust that had settled in the streets of Capricorn's village. The barking of dogs, the snoring of slumbering, off-duty guards, and the screaming and whimpering of prisoners shattered the heavy silence periodically, but the villains of the village slept on, undisturbed.

One figure, however, did not sleep. Taking care not to make a sound, she crept carefully through the shadowy kitchen of Capricorn's house. Her blue eyes, pink-rimmed with exhaustion, darted about suspiciously, observing the large, low-ceilinged room with trepidation. Her thin, raw fingers fluttered briefly with anxiety.

Painfully slowly, Resa reached into the sleeve of her dress, grasping the small, rusting key with her dreadfully shaky fingers. She had stolen it mere hours ago, taking it from Mortola's great iron ring with a sleight of hand that shocked her. And now, holding it between slick palms, she allowed the smallest flicker of hope to set her weary heart a-shuddering. This could be it. She could finally be free of this place.

How often she had yearned for this moment! How often she had dreamed of escape in the hushed hours of night! For she was a prisoner, just as much as any of the men and women in the stables- trapped in a voiceless body, miles and miles away from her family, made to work as a slave for the most vile, despicable beings alive. _Capricorn. Mortola. Basta. _Their names flitted through her mind, stinging like bees and plaguing her like flies. Oh, what she would give for freedom from their black power!

She had tried to escape once before. When she had been brought out of the medieval world of _Inkheart_ four months ago, she had been locked in the stables on her first night. She had hit her guard on the head with a brick, and had run through the tangled woods around the village for hours before a group of the Black Jackets had caught her, trussed her up like a game bird, and dragged her back to the village. The next day, she had been given a maid's uniform, shut into the kitchen chains, and placed under Mortola's cruel rule.

There was no use trying to run, the other maids told her. She would be beaten and locked in the stables again if she tried. All she could do was bide her time: do as she was told, and hope for a miracle….

...And now, at last, she held a miracle in her hands. If this key was the right one, she could _finally _get out of these cursed chains; she could run away, as far away from this wicked place as possible. She could search for her family: her beloved Meggie and Mo. She could go _home_.

Hardly daring to breathe, Resa inserted the key into the lock on the shackle that choked her ankle. The sudden, scraping _click_ made her lightheaded with relief. It fit! The key fit! Her chapped lips parted in an ecstatic grin, and she turned the key with no further hesitation. The lock sprang open, and she immediately wrenched the shackle off, gasping as her bruised, tender flesh smarted in the open air. The chain came next, and the whole wretched ensemble was placed quietly into a small cupboard. The key she tucked back into her sleeve; she was determined to keep it as a testament to her escape.

X X X

Resa dashed through the village's black streets, her thin slippers making no sound on the uneven cobblestones. She kept diligently to the shadows, out of the sight of the bored, weary guards that roamed the area. Her eyes, wide with anxious exhilaration, remained fixed on the rifles that those guards clutched: rifles that would swing into position and fire at the slightest movement or noise. She was _so close_ to liberty; she couldn't afford to make any mistakes.

She ran past houses and shops, walls and cars, getting ever closer to the dense forest that surrounded the village. She would be safe there, she knew. She could hide among the trees and brambles, moving until she found a road, a town. None of the superstitious villagers nearby would dare to take her back to_ la __città del Diavolo_. They wouldn't even report her...she hoped.

Sneaking between the cars in the parking lot in front of the guardhouse seemed astonishingly easy..._too_ easy; she was out on the main road in a matter of minutes. The world was still eerily silent but for the rustles, chirps, and buzzes of the might-washed forest. Resa stood at the wood's edge for a moment, allowing herself to bask in the enormity of her accomplishment. By God...she was free! _Free!_ A dizzying elation swept over her at the thought, and she staggered, tears of joy sliding unbidden down her face. Her feet seemed to move of their own accord, leading her straight into the trees, away from the deserted road. She picked her way gingerly up the steep s ope of the ground, letting the gentle, distant pinpricks of starlight illuminate her path. _Free...at last_...but she couldn't stop now; she had to keep going, gain as much distance as possible….

A sudden, stabbing pain in her ankle stopped her in her tracks; she gasped, feeling as though an electric current had been shot through her leg. Her mouth opened and closed like a fish's, forgetting that it couldn't make sounds. What...what _was_ that? A snare? A trap of some kind? Would she be caught after all?

The pain was beginning to make her dizzy; waves of heat seemed to wash over her, and her breath came quick and faint. Her thoughts slowed, muddled; her vision dimmed and blurred dangerously. Feeling a fragmented, debilitating fear overcome her, she forced herself to look down at her feet, struggling desperately to remain conscious, against the will of whatever vile drug had been injected into her.

The cold, calculating, pale eyes of the small black snake met her own hazy ones with an almost indolent malevolence. _Don't get in my way,_ they seemed to say. _Not my fault if something like this were to happen, now, is it? _How strange...the snake had Basta's voice- that same rasping, sibilant hiss that struck terror and disgust into the hearts of all the maids…. The creature slithered back slightly, and seemed to shift and grow before her eyes, its scaly reptilian facade taking on the sharp, angular contours of the right-hand-man's dark, thin face. He smiled at her, cat-like, drawing his knife out of his pocket, caressing it lovingly….

"No use trying to run, _tesoro_," he purred, stalking toward her, the sharp blade mere inches from her face. "Come to me, my mute songbird. Come to me…." And he grabbed at her chin, and pressed his mint-reeking lips to hers, and drew the knife straight up her leg as the world burst into a shower of blackening stars.

X X X

Everything blurred in and out of focus before her eyes; colors danced, and shapes loomed large and dark before tunneling out to mere pinpoints in a void of shadow. She was cognizant of a deafening ringing in her ears, a dull throbbing in her head, an oppressive heat constricting her body, and a piercing pain in her leg. Half-formed thoughts flitted through her mind like insects, floating together to form patterns that had no semblance of sense in their framework. She felt drowsy and giddy...but the feeling, despite the pain, was not wholly _unpleasant_. If it wasn't for the knife she was sure Basta had stuck in her leg, she might have been having a strange, strange dream….

Resa drifted in and out of consciousness for hours, lost in the dreamscapes of her fevered delirium. She couldn't bring herself to move, couldn't shift her leaden limbs to look at the wound that plagued her. She could feel her mind and heart slow, and couldn't bring herself to care. Even when the poisoned haze of her thoughts cleared into a startling ray of lucidity, she couldn't muster the energy to do something, _anything_, to save herself.

_So this is how it ends, _she thought wearily_. To come this far, only to die from a snakebite...it's pathetic. _You're _pathetic...you couldn't even make it out. They'll come with the dogs tomorrow, just you wait, and find your wretched, venom-wracked corpse, and laugh like hyenas at your stupidity…._

X X X

Resa wasn't greeted with the bright light of Heaven when she opened her eyes, but neither did the dark flames of Hell meet her gaze. Something soft and damp rested on her face, blocking her vision in a wash of beige. Her head still ached, but the electric pain in her leg had been reduced to a mere sting, and she no longer felt as if she was burning while simultaneously being encased in ice...the change was bloody marvelous.

With a soundless moan, Resa brought her trembling hands to her face, removed the cloth, and sat up. The world tilted and spun sickeningly, and she closed her eyes briefly to let the feeling pass. When it had, she wiped droplets of sweat from her forehead with the cloth- a scarf, she saw- and glanced around, her surprise growing by the minute.

She was in a cave of sorts, with sandstone walls and a floor of sand, scattered with rocks and small plants. A battered backpack had been placed under her head, and she lay atop a ragged coat of heavy, green-brown wool. Both items carried the sharp, wild scents of forests, smoke, and winter wind, with the faintest hint of some fiery foreign spice. The invigorating, alluring musk sent a little thrill through Resa's blood...but the heady exhilaration soon morphed into alarm. Where _was_ she? Who had brought her here, among these strange things? How long had she been unconscious? _What had happened while she was out? _

Clenching her teeth determinedly, Resa lifted the long skirt of her ridiculous maid's dress and bent over to assess the damage that had been done to her leg. Unexpectedly, her ankle had been wrapped in strips of rough white linen, and faint streaks of mauve extended beyond the top of the makeshift bandage. The area felt swollen and warm when she laid her hand on it, but the smarting pain the contact should have caused was alleviated by some cooling paste that had evidently been carefully applied. Dully, she stared at the treated wound, feeling slow and more than a little perplexed. One thing, though, was certain: someone had cared enough to expend his resources and help her. The question was..._who?_

X X X

Resa didn't realize she had fallen back asleep until she woke with a startled gasp. She was, to her great relief, still in the cave, but now the golden light of mid-morning streamed through the entrance, making the small chamber glow brightly. She stretched languidly in the sun, flexing her ankle, which, despite a slight, lingering ache, felt almost normal. A smile broke out on her face, but when a shadow darkened the cave entrance, she scrambled back, mouth open in a wordless cry of terror.

The man that walked into the cave was rangy and lean, with long dancer's legs and a hard, whipcord musculature. His pale, ginger-blond hair fell to his shoulders in ruffled, curling waves, and his rough skin was tanned from the sun. His gingery stubble and piercing eyes- narrow, wide-set, and a disconcerting bluish-grayish-green color- gave him an enigmatic, feral appearance, which was very much exacerbated by the three scars that were carved into his gaunt cheeks. His clothes- a thin, long-sleeved black shirt and dark brown trousers- were ragged and threadbare, and looked as though they had been stolen from various collection bins. He wore worn black boots, and a black leather cord around his neck.

Resa stared at the stranger warily, her back flush against the far wall of the cave, but the man seemed not to notice her. He turned and whistled sharply; a moment later, a lithe, slender, cat-like animal- a marten, she realized- came scampering through the entrance. The creature climbed nimbly up the man's long body to settle itself on his shoulder, where it immediately began hissing and chattering, its beady dark eyes fixed belligerently on Resa's prone form.

"Hush, Gwin; you'll frighten her." The man advanced toward her, his hands held in front of him in a gesture of peace. "Hello," he said softly, kneeling down beside her. "I'm sorry about all this; you must be very confused…. I'm, ah, assuming you just woke up?"

Guardedly, Resa shook her head and mouthed, _I woke up last night. _When the man frowned at her response, she sighed heavily. This was always the worst part of talking with someone: explaining to that unsuspecting do-gooder that she was-

"Mute?" The man's sudden question startled her. "You're mute?"

_Yes, _she mouthed, eyeing him with no small amount of suspicion.

"And a maid, too...no wonder you ran away, then," he murmured, seemingly to himself. He had a nice voice, Resa couldn't help but think: husky and low, colored with a distinctive brogue. Nothing at all like Mo's voice, with its rich, deep timbre, but comforting all the same….

...The gravity of his statement hit her, perhaps, a moment too late. _And a maid…_. How had he known she was a maid? Was he from the village? Had they discovered her flight, and sent this man to bring her back? Why would he be helping her if they had?

_Who are you? _she cried soundlessly. _What am I doing here; why did you bring me here? What are you going to do to me? I won't let you take me back, by God, I swear I'll kill you if you try!_

"Easy!" The man backed away from her slightly, holding up his hands placatingly. "I'm not going to take you back. By fire and fairies, I'd be happy to never set eyes on Capricorn and his bastard dogs for as long as I live."

_How do you know Capricorn? _she asked, persistent.

The man snorted. "I've run into him and his pack one too many times for my comfort. You're damn lucky that you got out of that cursed place. I swear, you're safe with me."

_How can I trust you? _God, Resa _ached _to believe him!... But how could she?

"Ah…." The man glanced down, running his long, thin fingers through his hair. "You can't, really. I suppose it's not enough to know that I hate that damned village as much as you do."

_No, it's not. _Resa studied the man carefully, taking in his rough, seedy appearance, his awkwardness, and (most importantly) his apparent lack of a weapon. While she didn't think she had ever seen him before…. _What is your name? I'll be more inclined to believe you if I've never heard of you. _

"Doesn't the fact that I haven't beaten you yet count for something?" he muttered irritably. Resa shot him a cautious glance at that comment; she couldn't tell if he was joking or not. The man sighed. "Apparently not. The name's Dustfinger...not that it'll make you any less suspicious, because I'm fairly you _have _heard of me."

X X X

_Dustfinger. _Yes, she had heard of him, all right. The Black Jackets mentioned his name often, with everything from contempt to grudging admiration in their tones. Basta, she knew, genuinely hated the man, while Capricorn seemed to despise him and be amused by him in turns. The maids, especially the ones that had never seen him, regarded him as something of a legend: a scarred, tragic hero out of any good fantasy novel...which he was, really. People had called him the Fire-Dancer in _Inkheart_, and he had brought that title out of the book with him. Studying him again, Resa was astonished that she hadn't seen it before. The fiery hair, the rough voice..._the three scars_. This, without doubt, was the very same Dustfinger, and she couldn't be more pleased; his dislike of Capricorn and his men was well-known.

_I know who you are, _she told him, her hands fluttering with excited relief. _I've heard many things about you. _

"Nothing good, I hope," he quipped, giving her a cryptic half-smile.

Resa couldn't hold back a delighted giggle. _No, _she agreed. _I've been told you're a veritable rogue. _

"Really," the fire-eater drawled. "Well, it's the strolling player's curse. You have a lovely laugh, by the by. I'm honored to finally hear your voice."

_Yes..._ she replied, feeling her mood darken at the reminder of her _own _curse.

Dustfinger noticed her forlorn expression, and immediately winced. "Right," he murmured, running a hand through his hair again. "I'm sorry."

Resa sighed. _It's alright. _In an effort to relieve the sudden tension, she offered him a small smile. _I think this is the part when I thank you for saving me. I might have...died...if you hadn't helped me._

"You would have," he told her somberly. "Those little black snakes are the deadliest of them all. Luckily, lavender is a very effective antidote."

_Lavender? _Resa pointed to the bandage on her ankle and tilted her head curiously. _That's what this is? _

"Yes. Very good for snakebites. Fevers, too."

_I see. _Mindful of her still-healing wound, she shuffled closer to Dustfinger, and took both of his hard, callused hands in her own dry, cracked ones. _Thank you, _she mouthed, trying to express her profound gratitude with her eyes, and failing. _Thank you for all of this. _

X X X

Dustfinger, Resa found, made an excellent companion. He was taciturn, but not overbearingly so, and was a quick study; despite her obvious handicap, she was able to teach him much of her language of gestures and signs with relative ease. In exchange, he told her stories of his home, his quiet, gravelly voice painting a vivid picture of fairies, trolls, Night-Mares, strolling players, and deep, wild woods. He spoke of the place with such wistfulness and warmth in his voice that she didn't have the heart to speak of her own time in that world, of all the darkness she had seen and felt….

"You would have loved the fire, I think," he was saying, his voice hushed with reverence. "It was a living creature there; if you knew how, you could speak to it like a lover. Here...fire has no sense of humor." He trailed off morosely, turning his strange eyes to the ground in evident anamnesis. The urgent chattering of Gwin, however, brought him abruptly out of his reverie. His sharp face shadowed by a frown, he stood, stalking noiselessly to the cave entrance and peering furtively outside.

Worried by his sudden vigilance, Resa crawled closer to him, reaching out to touch his leg. _What is it? _she asked. _What's wrong?_

"Get away from the entrance," he replied tightly, his voice betraying no emotion. When Resa stared uncomprehendingly at him, he paced angrily away from her, his left hand clenching into a fist and jerking towards the back of the cave. "Get back! Goddamnit, do as I say!"

His rage frightened her. Resa wasted no time in crawling back to the far corner and curling into a ball. Should Dustfinger lose his temper completely…. Would he strike her? There was no way to say! She didn't even know what had _happened_, for God's sake!

_What is __**wrong**__?_ she repeated forcefully. _Why...why are you so…._

"Well! If it isn't Dirtyfingers himself. Fancy seeing _you _here, my fire-eating..._friend_."

X X X

Resa froze, and immediately pressed herself as far back into the shadows as she could possibly go. She knew that voice...that cat-like, rasping voice..._Basta. _God, no; he had found her, it was only a matter of seconds before he would grab her throat and haul her back-

"What are you doing here, Basta?" Dustfinger's remark was enough to shock her into rational thought. His tone was...prosaic. Bored, even. "Late morning's the best time for snakes, you know. Wouldn't want one of those crawling up your scrawny yellow arse, now, would you?"

Basta scoffed, whipping his knife out of his belt and flicking it open smoothly. "Please! Are you trying to scare me off? I have news for you, matchstick-eater. _It. Isn't. Bloody. Working. _I know what you're up to; don't think that I don't."

Dustfinger spread his hands fecklessly. "Really. What am I up to, then? Tell me."

_What are you __**doing?!**_ Resa mouthed, unseen.

Basta's thin face twisted into an ugly smirk. "Don't play that game with me, you dirty bastard. You think you're so clever, don't you, with your bloody silver tongue, and your fire-"

"The fire that burned you to the quick, as I recall. I'd watch my mouth if I were you."

"Well, you're not, and I can do what I damn well please. So…." Basta took a step into the cave, his knife sliding almost sensuously over Dustfinger's scarred face. Behind him, Cockerell's wiry form and Flatnose's hefty bulk cast ominous shadows over the cave entrance. Resa shivered, terror freezing her in place. "Where's the girl, Dirtyfingers? Where's my mute songbird?"

"Flying away from you, no doubt. Whoever the unlucky wench is, I'm not surprised she's taken off."

"You shut up!" In the blink of an eye, Basta's knifeless fist struck Dustfinger right in the chest, hard enough to bend him over. Flatnose and Cockerell grabbed an arm each, and held him up in the air against the cave wall. Basta slashed furiously at the fire-eater's lean arm, tearing the sleeve and skin with a horrible ripping sound. Resa choked silently, praying that she wouldn't vomit at the sight of the red blood streaming down Dustfinger's arm….

"_Don't play games with me, you _porco bastardo! _WHERE IS THE MAID?!_"

"How the bloody Hell should I know?" Dustfinger gasped. "I don't know what you're-"

"You filthy-" _SLAM. _"- little-" _CRACK. _"- _asino_-" CRUNCH.

X X X

Each strike left Resa breathless. Flatnose and Cockerell were merciless, punching Dustfinger whenever he so much as opened his mouth, and holding him up so he couldn't defend himself. Basta sliced at him wildly with the knife; his arms, legs, torso...they were covered in blood, and it was washing over the floor in a sickly tide of red….

Gwin ran at Cockerell's heels, enraged, trying to defend his master, but the redhaired brute kicked out viciously, catching the creature in the side and flinging him across the cave, where he lay motionless on the ground.

"_Malvagios lercios!_" Dustfinger croaked, twisting and kicking with all his waning strength. "_Vai al diavolo! Giuro su Dio, poi ti uccido! Visto quello io non volere!_"

"_**WHERE IS SHE?! WHERE IS-**_"

_**NO!**_ Resa couldn't take it anymore. Throwing caution to the wind, she flew up and threw herself at Basta, trying to still his wretched knife. _I'm here! _she sobbed. _Take me, take me back, I don't care what you do! Just stop hurting him!_

"You'll get off me, my little songbird, or I'll decorate your pretty face, too," Basta told her, a core of ice lying beneath his pleasant tone. With one final, devastating blow to Dustfinger's temple, he turned around, grabbing Resa's arm tightly. "Let him go," he told the others. "We're bringing this one back where she belongs."

Flatnose and Cockerell, not to be outdone, hit Dustfinger once more, and dropped him unceremoniously to the ground. He groaned once, but lay still afterwards...frighteningly still. Resa, tears streaming down her face, reached out to him, but Basta took her hand in a bruising grip and tutted impatiently.

"None of that, love," he said in mock disapproval. A cruel, smug smile lit his eyes. "Leave him to rot; we've got places to be. Capricorn's been _dying _to know where you've been."

**A bit of an abrupt ending, but...it's late. Sorry. **

**Honestly, I've never written Basta before, and I've always found Dustfinger difficult. I freelanced the whole 'fight' scene, too...so if it's bad, I'm truly sorry. **

**Translation time! (These are all Italian)**

**Porco bastardo: F-king bastard**

**Asino: Jackass**

**Malvagios lercios: Filthy devils**

**Vai al diavolo: Go to Hell, or literally, go to the Devil**

**Giuro su Dio: I swear to God**

**Poi ti uccido: I'll kill you**

**Visto quello io non volere: You see that I won't**

**I don't speak Italian, so if anyone wants to correct me, please do.**

**That's all for now. I really enjoyed writing this, and I hope to see you soon! Remember to tell me your thoughts! Please!**


	2. Cloud-Dancer's Fall

**Hello, all! So...right off the bat, I'd like to apologize for the lateness of this...I blame writer's block and a TON of schoolwork. :/**

**Secondly, I'd like to thank **_**McShmickley**_**, **_**Rangersan**_**, and the three guests (I'm sorry; I don't know your names!) for reviewing; your support and feedback means the world to me!**

**Disclaimer: I don't own **_**Inkheart, **_**or **_**Inkheart: The Untold Story**_**.**

The sky was gray that day, and a strong, stiff wind blew mercilessly, making the flags, pennants, and tightropes of the Ombra market shiver and flap violently. Ladies clutched their hats and capes, and men pulled their cloaks tightly about them, cursing the chill breeze. All glanced up at the wires uneasily, marveling at that one wire-walker foolhardy enough to brave the unsteady ropes. He seemed oblivious to the danger, conscious only of the large crowd that had gathered below him, exhilarated and fearful.

He was not exactly fresh and willowy anymore...never had been, really. Nonetheless, Cloud-Dancer stepped and leaped and turned with all the sprightly energy of his bygone youth, graceful as a cat. He danced easily in the clouds, and two long, carved poles, weighted at either end with hanging brass balls, spun and flashed in his hands as he turned them about his twisting body, cutting through the gray air in dizzying, wondrous patterns.

X X X

Dustfinger, bless his wandering heart, had taught him that trick. He'd used to light those poles on fire, let the flames lick their greedy way up the polished wood and weave around it joyfully, lighting up the night sky with wheels of fire.

By the stars, but Cloud-Dancer did miss that rangy bugger he'd been so fortunate to call friend. It had been almost a year since he'd disappeared (along with Capricorn and that dog Basta, but no one missed _them_ much at all), and everyone was still more than a bit distraught. Cloud-Dancer couldn't remember the last time he'd since the Black Prince smile, couldn't remember the last time he'd see poor Roxane without red eyes, from crying her sweet self to a fitful sleep on those dark nights that the fire no longer kept at bay.

_Damn you, you bloody rascal_, he thought grimly. _Heaven knows I love you...but __**damn you **__all the same_.

X X X

His thoughts were too heavy, Cloud-Dancer decided, but there was nothing he could do about _that. _Still...there was a time and a place for everything, and he realized, somewhat dazedly, that he had stilled his dance with danger, and was merely standing motionless atop the rope, to the chagrin of his restless audience.

That fire-eating bastard would be laughing if he was here, calling Cloud-Dancer a sentimental fool- sad, but true, that- and telling him, in that sardonic way of his, to get the hell back to his dance.

_No sense in disappointing the crowd anymore than you usually do_, he'd say...and he'd be right, the bugger. Heaving a sigh heavy with sadness, he drew his heavy shoulders up, shrugging off the memories that haunted him. No sense in grieving now. Not when he had a crowd waiting.

X X X

Cloud-Dancer threw himself into the performance, letting his sorrow and rage fuel his muscles, pouring his heart and soul into the dance with death. He leaped, kicked, spun the poles, spun himself, unheedful of any distance, any wind, any _thought_, letting his body do the work it loved so well. His frenetic efforts proved fruitful, and scores of men, women, and children began to gather below the rope, rapt, captivated by the spell woven by this magical performance.

He glimpsed the crowd out of the corner of his squinting eye, and allowed a broad grin to cross his lined face, feeling the darkness of his earlier musings dissipate. This was what he'd been born to do, what he'd continue to do all his life...for when was one more alive than when he was dancing with death like this?

X X X

There was no warning, no possible way to foresee what happened next. Cloud-Dancer had, in sudden daring, shut his eyes, to the crowd's delight, allowing adrenaline to sweep him into its wild embrace and letting pure instinct take over. On the ground, a market trader eyed him with undisguised envy and aggravation, growling slightly at the artful figure of the man that had distracted all of his customers' attention. He wouldn't stand for this...there was only one thing to do to amend it….

The cabbage came out of nowhere, sailing through the air like the deadly ball it was. It flew true...too true, and struck the corner of the rope with an audible_ thud. _Screams from the crowd mingled jarringly with a sudden, frightening shudder, and Cloud-Dancer found himself pitching back and forth, unable to regain his balance, slipping from the rope, even as he desperately tried to grab onto it, falling and flailing through the gray afternoon sky.

Hoarse screams ripped themselves from his throat, but it was no use; he had nothing to catch, nothing to touch. Only cold autumn air and harsh, unforgiving ground below.

The crowd surged forward as he fell; were they hoping to catch him? Heaven's sake, they were_ in the bloody way_; he'd crush the lot of them if they didn't move!...But at that point, he couldn't very well _tell_ them all that, now could he?

He crashed down hard onto something...vaguely wooden, but soft at the same time. A sickening _crack_ made him feel sick, and his eyes squeezed shut of their own accord. Voices seemed to buzz in his ears, fading in and out, and he was faintly conscious of lying flat upon something round and warm. He forced his uncooperative eyes open, blinking uneasily as the world blackened and swayed about him. Shapes milled around his rapidly narrowing field of vision, calling for _Nettle, a healer, a physician!_

Cloth, he saw. He was lying on bolts of cloth, amidst the collapsed wood of a cloth-merchant's stall. His left leg, for some reason, was skewed at a strange, unnatural angle...gods, but he felt absolutely sick at the sight. There was pain, too, starting to flare up in unbearable waves...really, it was all too much. Above him, the voices pleaded him to stay awake, to stay with them, but he couldn't bring himself to mind them, and slipped into blackness without another thought.

**Poor, poor Cloud-Dancer. You get distracted, you overcompensate, and now you pay the price. Curse that market trader.**

**So...I'm not really very satisfied with this, but...well, it's something, at least. I hope you enjoyed it!**

**Please remember to tell me what you thought! Also, if anyone has any requests for future chapters, please let me know! I'm always open to ideas!**


	3. The Henchman's Folly

**And I'm back...not as soon as I'd hoped. I'm truly sorry; between school, play rehearsals, Winterguard, jazz band, and procrastination...I neglected this chapter. Shame on me….**

**Thank you to MissiPaint and a Guest for reviewing the last chapter and giving me incentive to write this one!**

**So...this chapter is the rather sought-after (so I saw) Part 2 of Chapter 19 in the original Inkheart: The Untold Story. A lot of people seemed to want a continuation to Basta's story, so...here it is!**

**Be warned that I've never written Basta, Capricorn, or any of the henchmen in this much depth before, so I don't know how well I did….**

**DO NOT READ THIS if slightly graphic descriptions of torture frighten, disgust, or otherwise discomfit you. You have been warned….**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Inkheart, or The Untold Story.**

The pale eyes of Capricorn roved slowly over the crowd of young men gathered before him, piercing their hard, tough exteriors and viewing the soft, weak flesh beneath with cold, placid contempt.

"Loyalty. Strength. Ambition," the lord of the fire-raisers began, in his deep, emotionless voice. "These are all virtues I look for in my best men...indeed, in_ all _of my men. Loyalty you all have; I know." The statuesque thug allowed a slow leer of a grin to cross his gaunt face, chuckled unpleasantly. "You would be dead if you did not. As for strength, you have shown me that several times. But ambition…." Capricorn let his voice die once more, taking a moment to meet the gazes of every member of his rapt audience. "Well. That is why you are gathered before me today."

X X X

_Loyalty. Strength. Ambition. _The great fire-raiser's words rang like the chorus of angels in Basta's young ears, singing a seductive song in his mind. They promised safety, love, _power_: all that his seventeen-year-old heart desired.

_Safety _and _love _were not luxuries that had ever been afforded to him; his lot in life had boiled down to scorn and abuse from his father (damn him, the _porco bastardo_) and trepidation from the stupid fools that were the children of Ombra. They had been afraid of him, with his scars, his cutting (he refused to think of it as _cruel_, though it really was; it was simply too inelegant) wit, and his narrow dark eyes that had seen too much. Shame on them.

_Look at me now!_ he wanted to shout. _Look at how far I've come, how strong and brave and clever I've grown! _None of them could have _dreamt _of holding a candle to him now. He would have loved to see their faces, _killed _to see their stupid slack mouths drop open, their dullards' eyes grow wide from shock. He was hardened now; no longer would he cower from their looks of fear. No, he'd welcome them, giving them the cold, haughty cat's smile he had perfected over the years. No longer would he let his father beat him and control him; he could give as good as he got.

Capricorn had never scorned him or feared him (for Capricorn feared no one); if he had ever beat him, it was only once, impassively, to teach a lesson...useful, really, when you thought about it. In any case, Capricorn had, in his cold way, delighted in Basta's wit, his calculating, deadly charm, his suppressed anger and his violence...he had nurtured those qualities. He had called Basta by name (which no one else had done), but never to tell him _enough_. _Basta_ never meant _enough_ here; it only meant _him_. It meant friend, fellowman. It meant, "We're off on a raid; come along." It meant, "We need you."

Here, he was wanted; more than that, he was _needed_. And now, out of all the young men and boys gathered in the dusk-darkened wood, he alone knew what was coming, and he alone knew exactly what he had to do to prove himself. These others..._none of them could have dreamt of holding a candle to him. _

X X X

"I need to know," Capricorn continued, pacing languidly back and forth, "who among you will be _my best men_. I need to know which of you will honor me, bring glory to my name...and yours. I need to know who is fit to stay, and who is _not. _

"So," he exclaimed suddenly, the slightest hint of anticipation coloring his implacable tone. "You will all be performing a..._task_, for me, to prove yourselves worthy of my path. in pairs, you will, to dispense with foolish pleasantries, _do as the fire-raisers do_-"

One flaccid lug of a youth suddenly raised an indolent hand, cutting Capricorn off. "_Domanda, signore_."

Capricorn fixed the young man with a cutting, exasperated stare. "_Che cos' è_?"

"Well…." The lug lowered his hand abashedly, running it awkwardly through his thick, greasy short hair. "What it is we're s'posed t' _do_, exactly?"

The pale fire-raiser rolled his water-colored eyes in exasperation. "I was getting to that, before I was so rudely interrupted," he replied impatiently. "The answer is that I really don't care. Plunder a village, burn it, steal some things, what have you. The point is to show me how willing you are to commit yourselves to this sort of life.

"Let me put it this way," he added, addressing the crowd at large. "The nastier and more..._creative_ you get, the happier I'll be. Do I make myself clear?"

The lug looked visibly nauseated, and quite a few others seemed a bit discomfited, as well. Still, a subdued chorus of, "_Sì,_ _signore_," rose from them all.

"Good," Capricorn drawled, giving them his leering grin once more. "Very good."

X X X

Basta eyes the wiry redhead before him with barely concealed contempt. Cockerell was clever, sure, but Basta worked alone; having the other boy along would only hinder him.

"Can't be 'elped, mate," the ginger-haired boy said suddenly, making Basta flinch; he hadn't realized he'd spoken aloud! "Yer stuck wi' me. Let's try t' make th' best of it, ay?"

"Fine," Basta muttered, shaking his head in annoyance. "I don't suppose you have any ideas, then?" He had his own, of course, but as this was meant to be a _partner exercise_...might as well see what stupid plan Cockerell thought up.

"Well," Cockerell drawled, irritatingly cheerful...and slow. "Since y' asked so nice, like…."

"Well, out with it, then!" Basta snapped, quickly losing what little patience he had. "Or I'll knock you over the head and do this myself!"

Cockerell, far from being intimidated by the (not untrue) threat, grinned roguishly, displaying all the gaps in his crooked teeth. "Against the rules, mate. Anyway; what I reckon we'll do is ferret out some rich bloke we know, do a li'l o' the ol' _convincing_, if ye know wot I mean, and make ourselves a wee fortune to take back to Capricorn. That way, we're betraying and _convincing_ someone close, and makin' money, to boot. There's no way in 'ell ol' Capricorn won't be pleased."

"that might be the longest, most intelligent speech you've ever made," Basta replied dryly, maintaining a veneer of scorn upon his face. In reality, however, he was furiously turning Cockerell's words over and over in his mind, unable to believe his luck at hearing such a brilliant idea...so fraught with possibilities….

The answer that came to him made his tremble with deadly anticipation. _Father. _His father had a veritable fortune hidden in the basement of his grand house, a fortune made as a spice merchant, and the remnants of his profiting off the dread Adderhead's silver mines (before the cold, vile king had grown tired of sharing his wealth and had taken his father's leg in recompense). Now, miserly as any highfalutin lord and sorely crippled, his father spent his days in his cups, while his gold and silver and jewels moldered away in that dank cellar, never seeing the light of day.

Basta knew exactly where they were. It would be only too easy to steal them unseen, but to get them by blackmailing and torturing his loathed father, pretending ignorance only to hurt him further...there could be no retribution more just than that. It would be the perfect payment for all those years of pain, fear, and abuse; an eye for an eye, as they said. A life for a life.

X X X

NIght had fallen dark and cold, swathing the stinking streets of Ombra with insidious, inky shadows, hiding nightmares beyond imagination. Cockerell, huddled in a thick black cloak. shivered visibly, both from cold and fear, but Basta felt only villainous anticipation as he stared at the back of his father's house.

It was just as he remembered: large, lavishly ornamented, and forbidding. Looming tall and menacing over the two crouching boys, it practically reeked of his father's cruelty and malice (to say nothing of his wine and ale), and it took all of Basta's considerable strength of will not to go streaking inside and killing the old man where he lay.

Finally, after what seemed almost an eternity of waiting, the bells of the city struck midnight, and Basta turned to Cockerell, his dark eyes glinting feverishly.

"Let's move," he whispered, hoarse with excitement. Cockerell nodded, too nervous to speak, and together the boys snuck through the alley behind the house until they reached the side entrance, which remained largely unused. With hands trembling but slightly, Basta reached into a hidden pocket of his cloak, searching for the thin wire he kept within, but Cockerell, suddenly and without warning, kicked the rusty lock of the door with expert strength, snapping it and making the door swing open with an ominous creak.

"Couldn't stand the suspense," he muttered, in response to Basta's outraged glare.

"You probably woke my father with your racket; you realize that?" Basta growled, his voice terse and biting.

Cockerell shrugged his infuriating lazy shrug. "Fine wi' me, mate. Strike a li'l fear into the old man's shriveled 'eart, eh? Besides," he added, running a hand through his jaggedly cut red hair, "I thought ye said he 'ad only one leg."

That, Basta thought, was entirely beside the point. Heaving out an exasperated sigh, he slipped through the door on silent cat's feet, waiting for Cockerell to move in behind him before closing it. "I'd kill you if you weren't right," he admitted grudgingly. Then, leveling a meaningful glare at the redhead, he added amiably, "I might do it anyway."

X X X

The house had a dank, musty smell to it, a sort of abandoned air that the ostentatious furnishings, paintings, and bric-a-brac belied. Stalking through the darkened halls, Basta felt a flood of memories, that he had tried so hard to repress, return to him unbidden, making him stiffen from phantom pains in his back- reminders of old lashings from whips and hard leather belts- and shouted insults in his ears.

_Worthless boy!_ his father would shout, looming over him with the belt in hand, striking a small, dark-haired boy whenever so much as the faintest whimper escaped his lips. _Always sniveling and sneaking and up to no good! The Devil take you, whoreson! You're a disgrace to my good name!_

"_Basta_," he whispered, too quietly for Cockerell to hear, clenching his hands into fists and pressing his eyes closed to dispel the horrid images. No use in dwelling on those old pains. They had made him stronger, they had, and he would take his revenge tonight. All would be repaid.

"Right," he said aloud, his voice husky. "This is what we do. We go up to the old man's room and tie him up...but leave him ungagged. There are things I need to say to him...and we threaten him. Torture him, as much as we need to get him to confess; makes it more satisfying that way. Once he tells us, we take the jewels, and take them and him back to Capricorn as proof. _Vanno bene?_"

"_Perfetto_," Cockerell replied, baring crooked teeth in a wide grin. "Couldn't have thought of a better plan meself."

X X X

Cockerell kicked open the door to the master bedroom just as he had done to the one downstairs, only to find Basta's father sitting up ramrod straight in bed, staring at the black-cloaked, hooded figures that entered his chamber with fear in his eyes, though it was adeptly disguised as contempt. He clutched a jeweled dagger in his plump, cracked hands, and fixed them both with a yellowed gaze, as if daring them to move in further.

"Not another step, _dannatos ladros_," he croaked, in the deep, drink-burnished voice Basta remembered and hated so well. "Or I'll kill you where you stand. _Capisci_?"

"None of that, now," Basta purred, toying with a length of rope as he sidled up. "I wouldn't want you to inconvenience yourself, one-legged cripple that you are. Why don't you just stay all nice and comfortable in that bed and let us do the talking, _va bene_?"

"_Chi sei?_" his father asked, a note of fear sliding into his toad's voice. "Your voice...I know your voice, I do..._quel voce è familiare a me…._"

"Is it?" With a sudden flick of the wrist too fast to follow, Basta looped the rope about his father's neck, pulling it taut as he hauled the old man out of bed. Cockerell punched him once in the mouth to shut up his screaming, and made short work of tying his hands behind his back and roping him into the ornate armchair that sat in the corner of the room. "I'm surprised it took you so long to recognize it, _father. _You must be going deaf if you don't remember your own son's voice."

"My son?" the now-captive man roared, trying and failing to heave his bound bulk out of the armchair. "_Porco bastardo_, you're no son of mine! I never had a son! You lie!"

"No, I'm really afraid you're mistaken," Basta replied lazily, pulling his knife out of its sheath at his belt and fondling it lovingly. "I _am_ your son. Your _beloved_ Basta. And you, father dear, have something that I want."

"What are you _doin'_?" Cockerell hissed, shifting nervously where he crouched. "Just get 'im t' tell and be done with it!"

"You'll never make a very good villain, Cockerell, if you don't learn to savor the moment," Basta returned, giving his unfortunate partner an unpleasant leer of a grin. "Besides, it's not as if I'm dithering. I'm going to take off one of his fingers for every lie he tells. And if he keeps up with it...well, I suppose we'll have to go a bit higher, isn't that so?"

X X X

Really, the old man had to be admired for his persistence, if nothing else. He denied that he had a son nine more times...and when he had lost all his fingers, he finally agreed to _that_, but proceeded to lie about the fortune long enough to have blood pouring out of cuts on his arms from wrist to shoulder. Cockerell, by that point, had become impatient, and had started stabbing his knife into the old man's flabby paunch. Now he was wheezing and choking pitifully, with blood bubbling up between his fleshy lips and staining his whole body red...and he still refused to tell. Tiresome in the extreme.

"Well," Basta said mildly, wiping the blood off his knife with a gentle swipe of his cloak. "If you won't tell, father mine, I suppose I'll have to let you in on a little secret." Grinning like a pleased child, he leaned in close, allowing his lips to touch his father's ear before whispering, "_We already knew where it was. _Now, doesn't that hurt, knowing that you could have prevented all of this, that you could have _lived,_ if you'd just cooperated from the start?"

With one deadly hiss, the knife came up one last time, slicing through the oppressive, heady smell of blood and darkness, and caressing his father's throat, splashing red again as the old man's gurgles and groans were silenced for eternity.

"Children don't burn in Hell, father, not like you always told me," Basta said grimly, turning to follow Cockerell to the laden basement that awaited them. "But liars do. Remember that."

X X X

"I'm impressed," Capricorn remarked, eyeing the sacks of treasure and the mangled, bloodstained body of Basta's dead father with a cool, dispassionate gaze. "You two have outdone yourselves...as well as every other man here. I think there is no question who the winner of this contest will be."

And that was so gratifying, so intoxicatingly wonderful news, that Basta could have kissed his father's lifeless lips. After all, they wouldn't have won without him.

**Well. That...wasn't at all what I was expecting, but...I'm a bit of a gory person. I also freelanced the last half of this, so...if it's bad and seems rushed, that's why. **

**Translation time! These are all Italian, and PLEASE don't hesitate to offer corrections. **

**Porco bastardo: F**king bastard**

**Basta: Enough**

**Domanda: Question**

**Signore: Lord or Sir**

**Che cos' è?: What is it?**

**Sì: Yes**

**Vanno bene? Is it good?**

**Perfetto: Perfect**

**Dannatos ladros: Damned thieves**

**Capisci?: Understand?**

**Va bene: Okay**

**Chi sei?: Who are you?**

**Quel voce è familiare a me: That voice is familiar to me**

**Ciao, tutti: Bye, everybody**

**So...tell me what you thought! Also, I'm taking requests for the next chapter! You're welcome to submit as many ideas as you like, but I'll wind up using all of them eventually (hopefully), so...help a girl out! Please? **_**Ciao, tutti!**_


	4. When Roxane Met Jehan

**AN: So...another long absence...three months...maybe four? ...Damn. I...well, I have excuses, sure, but I don't deserve to pile them on anyone who might still be reading this...life just kind of got away from me. Sorry. **

**I credit this chapter to **_**MissiPaint**_**, who offered the idea and was kind enough to review the last chapter. Thanks; you rock!**

**Disclaimer: I don't own **_**Inkheart**_**.**

The stranger came up the lonely road at dawn, unhindered by any provisions and unwary among the ragged, brightly colored tents of the Motley Folk. Those who saw him that day would thereafter remember him well: tall and strong and young, with sun-darkened skin yet pale with exhaustion, and thick brown hair that curled and swayed past his shoulders as he walked, as if dancing to the rhythm of some unknown music. A handsome man, they whispered excitedly. An intriguing man. But as he came nearer and nearer to the camp, they could see that all was not well with this fair stranger. He limped heavily, as though his right leg could bear no weight, and kept one muscled arm wrapped tightly about his stomach. He was a man beaten down by circumstance, but he hung his head and soldiered laboriously on. An intriguing man, indeed.

Entering the camp at last, he lifted his head to gaze about, meeting the curious stares of the gathered players with blue eyes pale and hazy with weariness. "Pardon my intrusion," he murmured, his voice gentle and low, "but might there be a healer among your company? I would be...eternally grateful is there was…."

"A healah'?" An old man, wild-haired and knobbly-kneed, squinting valiantly out of one cloudy eye webbed with cataracts, hobbled forward to meet the visitor, studying him with ill-veiled suspicion. He had been a minstrel once, one of the best in the land, but his fingers could no longer dance over the strings of a lute, warped and stiff with age as they were. Still, he had been so beloved, so revered, that no one could bear to leave him to fend for himself. Let it not be said that the Motley Folk were in any way unkind to those unable to play for weakness after years and years of precious service.

This old man had now taken it upon himself to be this camp's chief inquisitor, of sorts. Leaving the farce that was watch duty to those younger and less infirm than himself, he made it his business to interrogate any and all trespassers, be they harmless or not. At this moment, the object of his scrutiny, this seemingly-injured stranger, seemed to the old minstrel not only completely genuine in his importunity, but more than incapable of giving anyone trouble...so when next he spoke, the edge that had given new life and bite to his creaky voice disappeared, in lieu of a more personable caution.

"Aye," he replied, nodding sagely. "There be a healah' o' sorts among us, an' no mistake. She'll set ye t' rights, boyo, if 'n ye ask 'er nicely, o' course."

"Of course," the young man repeated, smiling good-naturedly through the pain that contorted his features in a grimace which he tried all too desperately to hide. "I wouldn't dream of doing anything else."

"Right good fer ye!" the old minstrel exclaimed, hobbling forward to place one wrinkled, arthritic hand upon the stranger's broad back. "Roxane she be called: a righ' pre'y lass, if 'n I do say so meself. Ye'll find 'er in that tent yondah'."

Following the point of the piper's knobbly finger with eyes glazed with fever and exhaustion, the wanderer nodded, beginning to stumble towards the small, colorful patchwork tent with alarming unsteadiness, drawing the chagrined attention of the other strolling players to him once more.

"Thank you," he whispered to them, hoarse and faint, as he felt their staring eyes upon his back. "Thank you all kindly for the…." But ere his statement of gratitude could complete itself, he trailed off, and pitched violently forward, collapsing sudden and limp onto the dusty ground, oblivious to all but the soft, warm blackness that consumed him utterly.

X X X

It was the sound of a child's singing that drew him from unconsciousness: a high, lilting, flute-like voice, crooning lyrical words in a tongue he neither recognized nor understood. Still, it was a soothing tune...really, he would fain have gone back to his sleep hearing it, but the feel of a girl's tiny hand, pressing something damp and cool to his brow, drew him back, much to his chagrin, from the edge of sleep's abyss, making him all too cognizant of the bruised, dull aching in his abdomen and leg.

Opening eyes lidded with lead, he smiled weakly at the small girl child before him, observing her just as keenly as she scrutinized him. She was a slender little thing, almost fairy-like, with large dark eyes staring intently at him from a pert, serious face. Her hair was red as fire, waving and curling wildly to her tiny waist, thick and flyaway like that of the ancient fae creatures of lore.

"You wouldn't happen to be Roxane, would you?" he asked, taking care to keep his voice soft, smiling slightly at the girl.

She flashed a grin at him with a quick upward twist of her delicate lips, and it seemed as though a ray of light shone suddenly upon her solemn little face. "No, silly!" she exclaimed, stroking curling brown hair back from his forehead with a tinkling, bell-like laugh. "Roxane's my mum; she was the one wot fixed up all your bruises and the like…."

Trailing off briefly, she dipped her hand into a wooden bowl that sat on the ground beside her, bringing it out to trickle cool water, tinted green and scented with herbs, over his torrid cheeks. "She's out right now," the girl continued casually, resuming the reins of conversation effortlessly. "Looking for herbs, see. She wants to change your bandages and salves, is what she told me. She's really very good with those sorts of things, most of the time. She'll soon set you to rights, mister."

"I hope you aren't telling tall tales about me, Brianna," a new voice admonished gently. Low it was, and faintly husky, but there was warmth in it, too, and music: the music of a chorus of sorrowful angels. The owner of this ethereal voice, a woman tall and slender, entered the tent with a dancer's grace, carrying herbs and cloths in a wooden bowl. Her hands were chapped and roughened with labor, but her complexion was smooth as cream, and her hair thick and lustrous as any noblewoman's, falling waterfall-straight to her hips. Her features were sharp, and her thick black brows and full, heart-shaped pale lips lent her a striking air. No classic, pale beauty was she, this dark vision, but the man could not take his eyes off her all the same, feeling senses that had long since been sleeping wake with a fiery vengeance, tingling madly for this dark and sultry stranger.

Her eyes met his, as though she could sense the concupiscent turn his thoughts had taken in her favor, and (much to his dismay), he felt his heart stop yet another time as he gazed into their olive-green depths. All the sadness of the world flashed within those eyes; they were shadowed, fraught with the tension and pain of some unknown and unspeakable trauma.

...And yet...they glowed, too, with resolve unbroken by her suffering, which he sensed to have been so much greater than his own banal grievances. He could not help but be drawn to that strength, that hidden fire, and admired the independence in her stance and the will in her expression...even as that long-buried gallant within him fairly _ached_ to take her in his arms, protect her from the cruelty of the world and ease her sorrow….

X X X

"I apologize, _signor_," she said to him gently, the unexpectedness of her address wrenching him from his unseemly reverie with a jolt. One pale hand touched his brow tenderly, checking for fever. "I do hope my daughter wasn't troubling you."

"No trouble, I assure you," he murmured, too bemused, too entranced by her mellifluous voice and a febrile fog to respond with any more wit than that.

The woman seemed not to notice his befuddled state, turning away from him easily as she knelt to crush some herbs into the now-emptied bowl with a stone pestle. The girl Brianna helped, lending to the scene an oddly domestic air, and seeing the woman's kindliness with her small daughter, and the care she paid to her craft, removed any lingering vestiges of doubt or unease he might ever have felt in her presence...though that did not keep him from feeling a right fool as she glanced back at him, seemingly sizing up his wounds before adding some other leaves to her salve.

"I hadn't intended this," he said suddenly, not at all sure, now, why he spoke, viciously berating his gauche, blunt self...unable to make himself shut up. "Coming here, I mean. I had...meant to seek out a healer for one of my ewes; she had an awful rash, see, and-"

"Was rather touch-sensitive, I imagine," Roxane concluded, smiling at him softly as she turned to unwrap the bandages about his stomach. "She kicked you?"

"Aye," he admitted ruefully. "She did, though I only touched her gently, to bathe the skin, give her some relief. Nothing else I tried worked."

"Well, you don't know very much about sheep, then," Brianna declared, with the dogmatic stubbornness and authority of judgement only a child could possess. "It's no wonder she kicked you."

"Brianna!" Roxane snapped, shooting the man an apologetic, embarrassed look. "Apologize at once! There's no need to be rude, especially to an injured guest."

"It's all right," he cut in, hoping to dissipate the tension that had suddenly suffused the tent in the wake of Brianna's sudden silence. "She's right to scorn. I may be a mighty good farmer, but I'm useless with medicines, beyond what few family remedies I know." Turning his head stiffly to face the child, he added, "That's why I go to healers for big problems, lassie. I can't let my family suffer because of my ignorance."

"Your family…" Roxane murmured, pressing her hand down with inexplicable force onto his abdomen, drawing a slight, barely stifled wince from him. "You have no wife, then? No children?"

"No," he sighed, feeling a pang of loss and nostalgia for something that had never been. "Just me and the beasts." It was a lonely life, perhaps, but it was his; he wouldn't trade it for anything.

Still, the young woman's silence discomfited him, and he cast a nervous glance upon her, his eyes roving over the careworn blouse and long, colorful skirt aswirl with riotous patterns, to alight upon the ring adorning the fourth finger of her left hand. It was wrought of a delicate, dark metal, iron, perhaps, curling into the shape of leaves, vines, flowers, and tongues of flame about her bone-thin finger. A wedding ring, certainly- its position rendered impossible its being anything else- but one unlike anything he'd ever seen before. It looked to have been specially made, with genuine thought and care.

_She's a lucky woman,_ he thought, _to be blessed with such a husband…. _And he could not for the life of him have said why that thought saddened him as it did.

"You must love your husband very much," he muttered awkwardly, nodding toward the ring when the woman stared at him, confusion running rampant in her eyes. "I don't know many women that would accept such a unique ring, with no jewel or anything." ..._Damn. _Why had he spoken to her like this, so bluffly and presumptuously..._again_?! What was _wrong_ with him, that he couldn't control his blasted tongue around her? _Why did the thought of her loving husband make him so damn tetchy?!_

...Evidently, Roxane thought as little of his outburst as he did, for she immediately glanced down at her ring, a shadow clouding her chiseled features as her lips tightened. "I did," she replied. Icy. Closed-off. Uncommunicative. "He was the world to me; I would have followed him anywhere. What would I have cared for jewels, or fine clothes, when I had his love, his fire, to sustain me?"

Something about her tone struck him as odd, even as shards of glass seeped into his heart at this admission of unadulterated adoration. Roxane's words were passionate, spoken from the heart's true love...but her eyes were shuttered, her voice bitter and resigned, her face contorted with some barely suppressed grief and rage. _I DID, _she had said. _He WAS the world to me_. Past tense. Was he gone, then; had he spurned her for some other woman, the base cad? Or was he dead? In this world, where danger lay around every corner, lay behind every bush and stone and post, it wasn't at all difficult to believe...and what else could account for the grief in her eyes but the ultimate farewell, the wretched thievery of life and love by the White Womens' cold hands?

He opened his mouth to say something else; to ask for truth, or to console, he knew not which, but she cut him off ere he could say a word, holding one trembling hand up as she began applying her salve with the other. "Don't pity me, please," she begged softly, though an edge of steel still resided in her dulcet tones. "As far as a wife's tragedies go, mine isn't the worst. He's gone, yes, but…." Trailing off briefly, her full lips quirked up into a small, bitter smile before resuming their solemn pout. "He was gone all the time. Two years isn't nearly enough time to lose hope completely, not with him...no matter how much I might fear."

"I'm sorry, still," he replied uncomfortably, hoping she wouldn't take offense. "No one should have to live through the pain of that sort of uncertainty. Perhaps it's as you say, and he's merely...off traveling, or whatnot. Perhaps he's dead- _bugger_." There he went again, speaking without thinking. Damn his cursed tongue a hundred times over.

"For your sake, I hope he isn't," he amended quickly, catching a glimpse of tears welling up in Roxane's eyes, feeling his heart twist in pained sorrow at the sight. "You don't deserve that, kind angel like you. Besides," he added, smiling at her hopefully. "He ought to come back, just so I can give him a piece of my mind. Leaving a woman such as you like that! He deserves a good hiding, I reckon."

The joy that welled up in his heart damn near choked him, as the grief faded from her eyes, to be replaced by a warm mirth. When Roxane laughed, he felt as though a thousand songs danced through the sound, and he closed his eyes, revelling in the pleasure of knowing he had brought that majestic symphony forth.

"Too bold, _signor_," she teased. "If..._when_ he does return, I must tell him to expect such shaming from you."

"I should be glad to service you in that way," he answered. "_When _he drags his sorry arse back to your side, you tell him Jehan will be waiting." ...And if the man never did come, Jehan would go to her anyway, for he was beginning to think that he could not quite manage to live happily without her. No farmer, after all, could ever claim that such poetry existed in his mind without the tide of love helping it along.

**...Well, that sucked. I really need to get back into the flow of writing; a few months off will do that to you. Go figure. **

**Um...review? Please? Maybe?**


	5. The Prince and the Pauper

**AN: A little over a week, not bad….**

_**SPLAT!**_ A mouldering tomato, dripping as it sailed through the damp air, struck the wooden post of the pillory with a wet smack, disgorging the pungent, sweet stench of rot and a few writhing maggots as the gathered crowd cackled and jeered. Another putrid projectile followed it- a cabbage, this time-, and this one thumped against the flat wood between the head-holes, sending a shower of browned and spotted leaves in all directions, a rancid spray of mocking color.

The two boys standing side by side in the doubled stocks seemed to pay this torrent of abuse no heed; their heads hung low, defeated, as they were continuously pelted with vegetables, clods of mud, stones, boots, clumps of stinking offal, a screeching cat or two...whatever the hissing onlookers could lay their hands on. They were small, these boys: small enough that they had been graciously provided with wooden boxes by the bland-faced official that had clapped them in, that they might actually be able to reach the openings for their heads and arms. Of course, some whooping older boy, egged on by the wolf whistles of his friends, had run up and pulled them out from beneath the poor youths' feet, so that they were stuck hanging about half a foot off the ground. More was the pity for them...and more was the glory for the crowd.

X X X

The two pitiful children could not have looked more different from each other, an odd image in their juxtaposition. One was dark, so dark as to be rendered almost wholly invisible by night: tight curls of hair as black as pitch and smooth skin just a few shades lighter, and ragged clothes of the same sooty hue. His eyes, two onyx marbles in a sphere of opalescent white, were cast down, half-closed in weariness, and white teeth bit brown lips hard in the stinging pain of bruises, scrapes, and abject humiliation.

The other, had he been granted the boon of sunlight and a bath, might have possessed a sort of ethereal glow akin to that of the fairies of the Wayless Wood; his skin would have been as colorless as the moon, his long curling hair of the palest reddish gold. Instead, he was sun-roughened, weathered: his sharp face shadowed, his hazel eyes haunted beyond his years, his straggly locks hanging limp, a dim, wan flame beneath the overcast sky that was choked with smoke and death.

That sky wept this day: for the two abandoned boys, for the crowd that stood by, undeterred by its tears, to torment them. They were both orphaned, destitute, wholly alone...yet no one but the sky spared them an iota of grief.

X X X

It was nigh on sunset when the crowd finally began to disperse, chilled by the icy breath of the coming night and the eerie sight of the Adderhead's silver-towered castle, with its turrets and battlements looming black and terrible against the iron gray of the sky. All who looked upon that monstrous facade shuddered with fear, and people began to quit the square in twos and threes, not wanting to be caught out alone in that strange and desolate night, at the mercy of ravens and Night-mares and the Adderhead's henchmen (though not necessarily in that order). Relief was quick to flood the two boys as they were finally left to peaceful solitude...relief, and a slow, insidious horror at being forced to remain out..._here_...all night long. Perhaps it was for the best that they had been forced in here together. Though were yet strangers to one another, any company was better than none.

The dark boy was the first to stir from his apathy, spitting a soured apple pip onto the muddy ground with a grimace of distaste. "Cor _blimey_!" he hissed. "I swear, I'll never lose that taste if I live to be a hun'red."

"Good," the other youth replied, his eyes still closed, a sardonic smile twisting his thin lips. "It'll remind you t' be more careful, know that you know what 'appens once you're caught."

"Right, like _you're _one to talk." Both boys fell silent then, wrapped up in their shared misery, but after a moment the dark one sighed, spat again, and turned back to his companion. "So, what're you in here for, then?" When the other shot him a look of weary derision, he just shrugged and continued, unperturbed. "Just trying to make conversation, mate."

"How wonderful for you," came the dry retort. "Better if I was interested."

"You're a right tetchy bastard, aren't you?"

"Sometimes, yes."

The dark boy sighed again, determined not to be riled by his cross-grained stockmate. "Thievery," he said. "I tried to pick a lord's pocket. I woulda gotten away with it, too, if I hadn't tripped over his blasted robe."

"His robe?" Despite himself, the pale one sounded cautiously interested, like an indolent cat that had just spotted a tasty bird flying close by. "However did you manage that?"

"It was too damn long!" he shot back, frustration burning in his melodic voice. "Why do those things have to be like that, huh? Can't them nobles flaunt their wealth all over the place and wear somethin' _practical_ at the same time?"

Now the fiery-haired boy grinned a little, obviously enjoying the other's rant. "Doubt it," he replied, a roguish gleam lending a flash of light to his strange eyes. "The bigger's the better for 'em, never mind that their clothes leave them and us half-crippled. Lot of stupid louts, the rich are."

"Amen," the dark one swore in hearty agreement. "Hey, hear that, Adderhead?" Shouting now, he raised his black head as high as he could in its wooden prison, and roared, "A-bloody-_MEN_!"

After a long moment's silence, boyish giggles, hushed in vain, echoed through the silent night, making ripples in the air yet deathly still and damp. "Good trick," the pale one murmured, giving his dark companion a sharp nudge with his numb foot. "But if someone heard that…."

"Ah, what more can they do t' me?" he retorted, with reckless bravado. "I'm already stuck in 'ere; what's a little more time?"

"Hmpf. Rather be out than in, myself" Suddenly taciturn once more, the pale boy began to rub his bone-thin fingers together, whispering strange, crackling words under his breath. The other watched in uneasy silence, about to speak, when suddenly, small sparks began to glow between the boy's fingers, slowly undulating and growing in size, becoming an ever-growing blaze of light...until the lingering drizzle, casting it's sorrowful gloom over all the world, extinguished that joyful spark of hope...again...and again...and again.

"_Damn it all_." Bereft of his fire, the pale youth let his head fall in disgust, sharp chin hitting the pillory's sodden wood with a dull _clack_. "The one time it could've saved us was the one time it shies away. Bloody _typical._"

"How did you _do_ that?!" In contrast to his comrade's brooding rage, the dark boy was awed: no, _beyond_ awed, at what he'd just witnessed. "There were _sparks_ comin' out yer bloody _fingers_! You- how-"

"Fire honey," came the tired response. "Eat a little, let it burn itself out, talk to fire for half a year. Barring the existence of _rain_, it makes for a pretty good trade."

The dark one whistled. "I s'pose I oughtta be calling you Sparkfingers, then, ay?"

The other glanced at his hands, grimy with soot, blood, and dirt, and shrugged. "Dirtyfingers, more like."

"...Dustfinger." the dark one replied decisively. "Something in between. What say you?"

"Dustfinger…." The pale youth trailed off into silence, turning the strange name over and over in his mind. ...Truth be told, it wasn't a _bad_ name...and really, if he were to be honest with himself...he couldn't quite recall the name he had been given at birth. He had no need of it, after all; it had been years since it had been spoken, and lonely vagrants like him had no use for _names_...but a _title_...well, there wasn't much harm in one of those, now, was there?

"I suppose it'll do," he muttered finally, voice gruff with repressed emotion.

The other boy grinned, his white teeth a brilliant gleam in his coffee-dark face. "Teh by the power vested in me by God and this good stock," he said, jokingly, "I hereby christen thee Dustfinger of Argenta." Twisting himself as only an acrobat could, he brought one tingling foot up to rest on the newly named Dustfinger's shoulder, mimicking a prince touching a new knight with his sword.

"Many thanks, my Prince," Dustfinger riposted mockingly, but the dark one, not to be deterred, only grinned more widely.

"That's the Black Prince to you, my friend."

**So...this kind of sucked...and I'm not surprised? ...Oh, well. I tried, at least. **

**Regarding the Prince and Dustfinger's first meeting, I'm not actually certain if it occurred in the stocks. I know they were both trapped in the stocks when they were eleven, but apparently they knew each other since they were about six, so...creative liberties, I guess. :P**

**In other news, I have an important announcement: this story is now a joint effort! The author TripleAAAmanda, whom many of you may know, will be writing some chapters here and there...so...support her help, please! ...That means review. ...Please? **


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